Resurrection
by Krissy Mae Anderson
Summary: All is not well in Congo and Chicago after the events of "Kisangani." Ch 7 - Abby avoids Carter and has a surreal talk with a stranger.
1. Luka: End of the World

_"Resurrection" by VjeraNadaLjubav_  


**Summary:** All is not well in Congo and Chicago after the events of "Kisangani."  
**Rating:** PG-13 for graphic violence in later chapters  
**Spoilers: **"Kisangani"/ "What Now?" / "The Lost"  
**Acknowledgements:** Lotsa thanks to Kendra for supplying me with the needed info while I was many miles away from my Kisangani tape and helping me wrestle with my plotbunnies. You're a doll, hon - this fic would not be started without you. Also, hugs to my bud Christy for baking the biggest chocolate chip cookie I've ever seen for me to keep my spirits up. A big think you to Minka, my roomie and unwilling beta... And of course, thanks to my new mate Ollie, who related his malaria experience to me and did not go crazy after being dragged through the center of Vukovar three times in one day in search for the post office and toilet paper.  
**Author's note: **There seems to be a dearth of serious post-Kisangani fics, so I decided to put in my two cents. The fic was (and will be) long in the making, since I will be in Hungary next semester, where I can't watch ER, and at some point this series will become a parallel universe. Also, humor me. I'm stressed out and bitchy and I want to have French in this fic one way or the other. For those who are French-challenged, which is pretty much everyone, I provide subtitles. Also, since Luka's sick, the chapter's not making any sense on purpose. Must be something about me and sick Luka fics lately. Some of the events mentioned in this fic will be from my other fic-in-progress, "Contradictions," so take a look at it if you have a bit of spare time.

Luka – "End of the World"  


I can't hear anyone anymore but the screaming in my head, screaming of a child – why is Chance screaming again? I feel an urge to laugh hysterically, to laugh at the absurdity that is my life, at the constant merry-go-round, déjà vu feeling of having the same things happen to me over and over. Do I just attract men with guns, or do they attract me? Has my death been a long, drawn out twelve-year process, or have I been already dead in a way all that time? I wonder what's going to happen to my body. Will I get to be buried or will I simply just be another corpse by the side of the road, a part of the grotesque landscape? There is a shot behind me and something warm and wet splashes on my back and I stare at the dusty ground before me with which I seem to be destined to become one and mumble Latin phrases to do with hematology, simply wanting the man to kill me next so I don't feel sick anymore, to commit a strange form of suicide, to bring an end to a long process of killing myself with a cheap Kalashnikov clutched in a fifteen-year-old's hands.

The ground before me is splattered with Mabel's blood. Her Bible lays in the dust, a worn book full of dried flowers and folded photographs of people she knew, who will cry for old maid Mabel who went of to a scary foreign land to convert the heathens and got herself killed, who will drink tea and remember the righteous lady who became a martyr, Mabel's secret wish come true. Mabel will have a pretty funeral when her body will be released to her relatives and friends – oak coffin and her favorite roses, fellow parishioners and loving nieces saying long speeches on the importance of Mabel Townsend in world history, and a pretty gravestone with a pretty inscription, just what she always wanted. I have a harder time imagining my own funeral. There might be a chance that my body will never released – what does the Croatian government care about one dead Croat lying in a mass grave in the Congo when they are still looking for mass graves in Croatia? If my family does get my body, they won't have much trouble with the funeral – they already had a rehearsal. They will wear their Sunday clothes and stare at the smiling picture of the young man that I used to be, the only reminder that I have actually been alive for the last twelve years. My father will sit in the front row and silently cry, not able to understand why he had to live longer then his youngest child and his family. Mladenka will be probably the one who brings my body home – knowing her, she'll dig it up herself if needed. It's good to know that I am still needed by someone, even when dead.

At County there will be probably a tear or two. I have never been particularly popular there – people at the Vukovar hospital who remember me from my time there will probably cry more then my co-workers in Chicago. Abby will possibly recall that she once cared about me and maybe cry quietly on the roof, remembering the nights when we lay together on her bed holding hands and feeling impossibly happy. The rest will talk about crazy Dr. Kovac who went off and got himself killed, such a pity, and then forget that I ever existed. A new doctor will come in my place, perhaps friendlier and nicer to others, and I will be just one of the County ghosts, along with Dr. Greene and Lucy.

The soldier who is young enough to be my son grabs a handful of my hair and presses the barrel of the gun to the side of my head, bruising the skin there. I start laughing silently, and soon I'm shaking with hysterical laughter, not really caring about the gun to my head or the rope digging into my wrists. There a flash and I jerk forward, thinking that I've been shot, when I realize it was a flash of a camera. I look up and see another soldier, a young man barely out of his teens with a Polaroid camera, who is intently staring at it like a kid at a new toy. This just makes me want to laugh even more and I can't contain my laughter anymore, and I begin to chuckle, and then to laugh aloud, tears streaming down my face and obscuring my already blurry vision.

_"Why is he laughing?"_the young man with the camera asks.

_"I don't know. Henri said he's sick. Just shoot him so we can go eat."_

The man who is holding the gun to my head takes it away for a moment, and then pushes me in the back with his boot so I wind up lying facedown on the ground. I continue laughing, not really caring that I'm inhaling dust, but I just can't stop anymore, I can't, this is all so stupidly absurd. In an attempt to overcome the laughter I start reciting the Pater Noster – what if there is a God after all? It wouldn't hurt to be in His good graces so I won't wind up in hell right away…

_"Our Father, thou who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name-"_

_"I'm not hungry. Can I shoot him?"_

_"-Thy kingdom come-"_

_"We want to kill him, not make him laugh himself to death. You shoot like a girl."_

_"Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."_

_"What did you say? Give me the gun and I'll show you how I shoot!"_

_"-Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us-"_

_"But it it's going to take you a while to kill him, it's not my fault."_

_"-And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil-"_

_"-Don't shoot-"_ a familiar voice yells and the world becomes a giant burst of fireworks.


	2. Carter: On Forgetting, Fear and Friendsh...

Carter: "On Forgetting, Fear and Friendship"

**

* * *

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**Three weeks earlier…**

She looks so peaceful lying here. Her hair is spread on the pillow, her lips are half-open and she looks positively angelic, just missing the wings and the gauzy gown of the angels on postcards that Barb still sends me every Christmas. It's raining - the chilly Chicago rain, so unlike the warm rain of Kisangani, is rattling against the window, and I am so damn confused. Am I having a very early midlife crisis or am I just going insane? No answer comes forth from my brain and I just stand there stupidly, not quite sure what to do with myself. I wouldn't even have come here, but the thought of spending a night in Carter Manor held even less appeal than staying at Abby's. I really have no idea why I don't want to be here – I'm no longer mad at Abby, and I do realize that I acted like an asshole with a capital A after Gamma died, but something is gnawing on my mind, not letting me rest, and I really have no idea what it is.

The air smells like her apple shampoo, and I feel like I should have missed the cleanness of her apartment, but I long for the dirty, sweaty T-shirt on the bottom of my suitcase, a T-shirt that is slightly big for me. It's Luka's – he lent it to me one day because someone threw up on mine and I forgot to give it back to him. It has countless bloodstains – some from that night at the clinic, some from long before, some of Luka's when he cut his finger when making a sandwich. I suddenly realize that I feel out of place in Abby's clean bed with its freshly washed sheets – I keep imagining that this is all a dream and I will wake up in Kisangani in the middle of the night, and listen to Gillian weeping quietly into the pillow or Luka tossing and turning on his bunk as the mosquito net flaps in the rare nighttime breeze.

But I am not asleep, and I am across the world from Kisangani, and all I can do is take my pants off and climb under the sheets. The sheets on "my" side are coldly clean and I shiver, thinking seriously of sleeping in the Jeep. At that thought, Abby scoots over to the other side of the bed taking the comforter with her but I don't mind. I just lay here, staring at the ceiling, listening to Abby's breathing. She snores slightly as she sleeps and I remember that it's allergy season for her, something I should have realized earlier but forgot. That shows just how much in touch I am with her. Great…

I rushed off to the Congo thinking that if I went away my problems would go away. But they didn't, and they followed me back here along with the problems I picked up on my trip. Although I still like Abby, I feel that there is a proverbial invisible wall between us. Perhaps we need time away from each other, and perhaps, and that is the choice I dread, we have to part. When our relationship started, everything seemed easy, but then Abby's problems began to pile up, and I started to question myself at times, to ask myself whether I really would always be able to deal with her problems, and blindly reassuring myself that I could. I was so sure that I'd be with her for better or for worse, but now I'm not really sure, actually not sure at all.

There's another thing I am not really sure of. I have no idea who I am now – Carter the rich boy, Carter the doctor and Carter the altruist have all mixed themselves up into one hell of a mess, and I have no idea where to go and what to do. God, I wish so much that Gamma would be alive. Gamma always could kick my ass when I needed it, give me a kick in the right direction, and make it look like I did it myself. But Gamma's dead, and I'm very, very lost. I'd really like to get back on the plane, fly to Kinshasa, take a Jeep to Matenda and have a good, long talk with Luka, ask him how he deals with it, but I got to stay here in this obscenely clean bed and think about how shitlessly scared I was when I was about to be shot in the head.

Sure, I've had guns pointed at me before. We have had our share of gangbangers and crazed druggies in the ER, but there we can always call security or the cops. In the Congo, there was no one to call. I thought I would die. I was ready to beg that man in any language that I knew to spare my life and let me live. I was only thirty-three, not ready to die, not having done anything to be killed for. Then the man took the gun away and I released the breath I didn't know I held and took a look at Luka. He was just like me, kneeling on the ground with his hands behind his head, but the fear for his life I expected to see on his face wasn't there. He looked like it was an everyday occurrence to him, like he got a gun held to his head every day of his life, and it scared me more than the gun that was touching my temple only seconds before.

It was a shock to the system – to understand that people can live their lives like that, that they can be so numb, that they can become so used to death, and pain and war. That day I started to respect Luka – to do what he does, to go to a place not much different from the one he lost himself in, and continue living despite the burden he carries around. On this trip I found out that Luka isn't the bad guy my jealousy was painting him to be and got to know the Luka none of us here in Chicago knows. In the ER he has often been nothing then an annoying presence, a white coat and a tired voice reciting orders at shift change, dark eyes on a pale face stealing glances at me and Abby and quickly looking away when I looked back, a ghost. The Luka of Congo was a definite presence, and I felt as if I met a different man, a man totally different from the quiet ghost of a man I knew from Chicago, a real man of flesh and blood, who actually was a quite interesting man to know.

I recall the remark I made to him a year ago, when we were stuck in that damned sexual harassment seminar, when I made a stupid jab at the Balkans, and Luka defended his country. I said something stupid, something about that a chance of getting blown up discouraged me from adding a country to my travel itinerary. Now I've just returned from a country where one has a high chance of being blown up, and where I barely escaped getting blown up myself. Another thing that I understood on my trip is that even war zones were once beautiful, and it is doubly painful to the people who live there to see the destruction when they still have memories of beautiful views and clean houses and all they see are ruins and fires.

I'm really mad at Luka right now, but I'm very thankful too – he has made me see the life outside the clean American ER and the Carter Manor, the life almost everyone else sees. I feel shell-shocked, unable to process all the death and destruction I've seen in just two weeks, unable to register why it is so quiet here and why the air is not hot and moist. The old, pre-Congo, me creeps out from his hiding place and chides – you idiot, you should have not gone to the hellhole, you should have been already engaged to Abby and you'd be sleeping with her right now instead of staring at the ceiling and wishing you were with your worst rival. You didn't have to go to Congo – it's not like someone made you go there. The new me counters and says that I needed to go there, needed to get out of my overtly comfortable Chicago life, needed to see that people have much worse problems then mine and that I am actually quite well off. This argument wakes up the young me, who sides with that new voice – remember having no salary after your decision to switch residencies, remember your silly idealism, John, it whispers, and I remember the John who Paul Sobriki killed that night along with Lucy.

I have not thought about the pre-Sobriki me for a long time now. I barely think of Lucy nowadays, although only three years ago she used to occupy my every thought and dream for months. I have overcome my depression and downfall and tried to forget it, but along with it, I managed to forget my youthful idealism and dreams, to suppress the memory of the skinny geeky kid who used to puke every time he worried, the Carter almost everyone in the ER got to know. This starts me thinking about other things, especially friends. I have not had a real friend for a while. Whatever friendships I have had in my life fell apart. With women, they always turned into relationships, and with men they were either interrupted or ended in jealousy. Since Dennis, I haven't really trusted myself to try to form friendships, because I still sometimes dream of the dreaded beeping of the pager coming from the bloody body that used to be the friend I ignored.

My friendship with Abby did not last long until I wanted more of her time. I now realize that I contributed a little bit to her break-up with Luka – sometimes it seemed even to me that she was spending more time with me then with him during the summer of 2001. I should think about this more when I am less tired. When Luka gets back, I should try to continue to develop the friendship that appears to have started between us over alcohol-spiked soft drinks in the dark. Anyway, I should go to sleep. I've been up for almost 50 hours and if truth be told, I am dreadfully tired. At this thought, my brain catches up with my body and my eyelids begin to close. I smell the apple shampoo again and try to remember if I ever seen anyone eat apples in Congo. They must have apples, everyone eats them… I'll send Luka a box of apples for Chance, the little bird… I move closer to the side of the bed, close my eyes and finally fall asleep.


	3. Abby: Rude Awakening

Abby: Rude Awakening

I open one eye. My headache doesn't get worse and I cautiously open the other one. Ugh, my head feels like it's gonna explode. There's damned pollen everywhere and my allergies are going to kill me even though I've already ingested enough Benadryl to kill a horse. Pulling a double shift didn't make me feel any better, and I'm very happy that I don't have to work until Monday evening. I am going to go to the kitchen and pour coffee down my throat and then I am going to go to sleep again. It'll be a great day – just me and the bed, no one else. A day to forget about my life and pretend I am someone else – to daydream about life with no problems and love with no strings attached.

I will finally have time to think over what I have been avoiding for the last couple of weeks, what I like to call the "John situation." Even before our fight, I started to feel like I was going through the motions with John. I smiled when he joked, frowned when he was upset, but my mind was miles away, and sometimes I felt like I could care less what he did. I love him, but at times I feel like he just needs me to satisfy a craving, and sometimes I feel that I need him for the same reason. We got to know each other at the AA, and we are addicts, even though we have pretended we are not for a very long time. We addicted ourselves to each other, but after a while it has become clear to me that John is not enough for me.

People have always needed me. I'm Abby the Caretaker, sweet little Abby who takes care of everyone but can't stand be taken care of. It's a habit that is tough to break – once an independent little bitch, always an independent little bitch. I had to become independent way before other kids my age – I don't blame Maggie, since it was not her fault she was sick (although I've blamed her many times in the past), and even don't blame my asshole of a father, wherever he is. I've always blamed myself for some reason thinking of . If only I was the younger child, if only I had never been born, if only I didn't remind Maggie of my father. It continued even after I left Maggie – Richard, nursing school, medical school, nursing supervisor position, and my crazy family crashing back into my life again and again.

Let's face it – I can't live well without shit happening. I don't enjoy it, but calm life is not for me. I need to be taking care of someone, or destroying myself, to be happy. It's the awful truth John wanted to ignore. I am not worth loving because I don't love calm. I am addicted to madness, in a way. Lucky, lucky me. I also use everyone who I don't have to take care of, want to get the time wasted on being caretaker out of them, suck out their energy and use it for myself, use them and throw them away. I did it to Luka much more then to John, and I feel sorry now, but I don't know how to tell him that. John is much more open with me about his life then Luka was, and this is perhaps why we managed to have a more harmonious relationship. But even harmony can't help a relationship to last for long if the people try to fix each other, to fix the things that secretly frighten or embarrass them in themselves.

Speaking of Luka - I wonder what has happened to him in the last year. Not much is left in him from the guy I used to know and love, and not even much is left from the philandering party boy of last year. Just before he left he seemed tired, even more then usual, and there's something in my mind that wanted to reach out and help, but something stopped me. It's a sort of morbid curiosity that affects us at times – we secretly love to see other people suffer just like we secretly enjoy watching car wrecks on TV. I feel guilty for standing by while Luka's life seemed to become more and more bizarre everyday, for telling myself that I did not owe him anything, ignoring his silent plea for friendship that Christmas. But it's all in the past, and it's too late for me to fix some things between us.

I walk into the kitchen and see John there, reading the morning newspaper. I stare at him like he has dropped in there from heaven, although I perfectly know he must have returned from the Congo last night. I would have liked for him to call me before he showed up and maybe apologize for being an asshole, so his sudden appearance in the kitchen elicits less then enthusiastic feelings from me.

"Hey," I say cautiously. Well, one can't get into a fight with a single "hey."

He looks up, and I frown. He looks tired, his face reflecting more then jetlag. Something in me begins to worry for him but I quench the impulse coldly, remembering his words. "It's not Rio – but it's not here." He walked away from me, walked away when I finally was ready to tell him that I did want to be with him, that I wanted to mend our relationship, that I would let him into my fears. Now it's beyond mending. Two weeks can change a lot, and in our case they have changed everything.

"Morning." Normally, he would sweep me off my feet right now and tell me how cute I look in the morning, but he doesn't even look up at me. He seems about as excited to see me as I am to see him. Well, there goes my date with the bed and here comes the end of relationship showdown. Well, at least we are not in a public place and Carter's is too nice to tell me what he thinks of me, to tell me the truth about what I really am. Luka was right – I'm a bitch. And I am a bitch who sat alone in the dark for two weeks and tried not to cry, not understanding why Carter could not understand my more pressing problem, why he got so mad at me just because I needed to get Eric. He did not know how I felt that evening when Maggie kept droning on about Eric being alive and okay when a part of my mind kept droning on about Eric being dead because of me, because of my fear of my family's madness, the cold, terrible feeling that I would never see my baby brother again... He doesn't want to understand the insanity of Eric and Maggie. He won't admit it to me, but he probably only likes them when they are nice and on their meds. He's ashamed of me when they go nuts, supportive but repulsed at the same time - a normal reaction, but I don't need normal, I need the unusual reaction, I need the support and understanding.

"Morning. How was your trip?"

"Long. They had engine problems on the way back – we had a long layover in Frankfurt." Carter looks down at the newspaper, and then looks up at me, then looks away again.

Great. He might as well just walk out of the door right now. I don't care. I have enough problems to deal with right now without dealing with him.

"Who's we?"

"Me and Gillian, a nurse from Quebec. Another volunteer. Want to see some pictures that I took?" He takes out on of those nifty little photo viewer things that look like little Gameboys and reaches it to me. I flip through the pictures – child after child, smiling weakly at the camera. Several tired-looking women in bloodstained lab coats. John and a woman with dark hair – since she has an I Love Canada shirt on I assume she is Gillian, her hand on his shoulder. Gillian and Luka, standing too close to each other. I feel a little pang of pain in my chest, suddenly jealous at this woman for touching Luka and John. Luka with a little girl. Luka by himself, leaning back in a chair, a cigarette loosely held in one hand and a glass with something in the other, looking directly at the camera. There is something dark and strange about him, something that I saw for a fleeting moment at Susan's Christmas party. I look at the picture again, suddenly scared, because this Luka does not look at all like the Luka I used to know.

The Luka I knew only three years ago was a different man. When he was with me, he could be the opposite of cautious, reserved Luka I saw at work. Luka was definitely a change from Richard, a change for the better. In his better moments, Luka would reveal himself as a closet romantic and could be wonderful, taking me to small cozy restaurants or cooking me dinner. Our sex life was quite good too. Luka really enjoyed "worshipping" me, and I enjoyed returning the favor, since Luka without clothes is eye candy. But sometimes something dark and ugly came up in him and he could be very spiteful, like the night we broke up. At other times, he was overcome with sadness, and despite his attempts to pretend that everything was fine I could feel that he was really upset. Despite my attempts to find out more about the source of that sadness I never could get far and I became more and more frustrated when I could not get through the barriers that Luka managed to put up around his past, and one day I got tired of feeling like I was trying to break down a brick wall every time I tried to talk to him about our relationship.

I put John's photo thing on the table, shuffle to the fridge and stare inside of it for a while. All there is to eat is a moldy piece of cheese and a carton of some very old eggs, along with a large tub of Rocky Road. Deciding that breakfast is not the best course right now I change course and walk to Mr. Coffee the cheap coffeemaker, whom I have abandoned in the last month. It acts accordingly by making strange choking noises when I start it. I turn back to the table and see that John is watching me from behind his newspaper.

"Coffee?"

He nods and returns his gaze to the newspaper. Yep, this conversation can't get any livelier.

I return my gaze to Mr. Coffee. Coffee. Luka used to make coffee that made me so hyper I couldn't sleep for two days and he complained that it was weak. Luka. I think of Luka in the kitchen, sitting at the table in a rumpled T-shirt and boxers, his hair disheveled from sleep, drinking his hair-curling coffee and looking at me with a small smile, a specialty of his. Coffee has an association to Luka in my mind – the taste of strong coffee reminds me of the taste of Luka's lips. Mr. Coffee burps a little and spits out more warm tasteless coffee into the cup. I bring it over to John and put the cup in front of him, careful not to touch him. After that, I go to the stove and decide to make myself Turkish coffee, just out of spite.

"So, how was your trip – really?"

John takes a sip of coffee and stares at the cup with barely concealed disgust, but continues drinking.

"It was an eye-opener. Made our ER seem like a goldmine of supplies. I'd – I'd rather not talk about it yet. I am still a bit shell-shocked." He laughs tonelessly, bites his lip and takes another sip of Mr. Coffee's shitty brew. "By the way, Luka says hi."

Luka. When Luka will come back I need to have a good long talk with him. I've let the "Luka situation" disintegrate for way too long. But even before he comes back, I've got to resolve the "John situation." I've began thinking of people as situations to resolve – soon I'll start describing myself as the "Abby situation." I need a fucking vacation. Yeah, that's exactly what I need. Maybe I should quit my job and run off to some warm place and assume a new identity. I'll be a doctor who has been given a large sum of money by her deceased aunt and whom all the men want to love no matter what her problems are, who will be normal and rootless, a mysterious presence - yeah, right. When hell freezes over.

My Turkish coffee is ready and I take a sip, immediately thinking about Luka. About Luka drinking coffee wearing nothing but socks. About me getting tired of watching him drinking coffee in the buff and finding another use for his mouth-

The phone rings, making my poor head hurt even more and jerking me out of my fantasy. Great. Maybe I should just invite the whole ER to come visit me. Logically the next thing would be doorbell ringing. I grimace and search for the new cordless I got last week, finding it on top of the fridge.

"Hello?"

"Abby, rise and shine – they finally let me use the fucking phone. How about you coming over tomorrow – bring some candy bars, they have no candy machine here and I am dying to eat some chocolate and I feel like a fucking bunny on Viagra with this new med they're giving me-"

At this point I tune Eric out and think that our family must have somehow been cursed. I mean, all I want is a nice, stable life but here I am with my nutty brother going on about how horny he is, my maybe-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend staring into his coffee like he wants to drown himself in the cup all while I long to do the nasty with my favorite former lover. If Maggie walks into the door right now, I'm jumping out of the window and leaving John to deal with her.

After another ten minutes of Eric raving I promise that I will come over tomorrow and hang up. My coffee has become cold and I suddenly want to cry. I want John to leave so he can't see me cry. I want him to leave because my tears are because of him.

"We've been having a lovely conversation this morning, John."

He looks up sharply when he processes the level of bitchiness in my voice.

"What are you implying, Abby?" His voice is neutral but he looks annoyed. Then, he calms down and stands up, putting the coffee down. He comes over and carefully embraces me, not noticing that I stiffen when his hands touch me.

"Look, Abby, I am very sorry for everything I said before I left. I'm an idiot. I was wrong to treat you like I did. I'm really unsure of what to say – I-I am pretty jetlagged this morning. Long flight." He attempts a feeble smile and draws back from the embrace and I feel strangely relieved.

I couldn't give a flying fuck if he has been flying around the world for a week. I want to be alone today. He did not need me two weeks ago – he doesn't need me now. I don't need him. I never needed him. Never needed anyone. Love just screws with me – and right now I don't want to be screwed with. I just want to be alone and lie under the covers in my dark bedroom and bask in my misery, cry into the pillow because my life will never work out and I push away people that I like if they don't screw with me first.

I take a deep breath. What I am about to say will probably be a first step on a long, rocky road to our breakup. I just wish the break-up would be over already so I can treat myself to a pity party.

"John, I think it would be a good idea if you stayed at your place for a while."


	4. Chance: We All Fall Down

Chance: We All Fall Down

I cannot jump rope anymore.

Docteur Luka and Docteur John had to cut my foot off. It was hurt bad when the shell fell down. It hurt so much, and they couldn't help me. Mama was so sad, I know she wanted to make it hurt less. Mama cries a lot now. When I was little she didn't cry much. She smiled. I don't remember the last time she smiled.

I used to be the best in school at jump rope. I just went for a year and a half before we had to leave but I was the champion. The ugly Marie from the French class tried to be better then me but she just fell down and scraped her knee and cried. I never cried when I fell. I wouldn't have cried when they cut my foot off but it just hurt too much. Now I will always have only one foot. It looks so strange – and sometimes I wake up and feel my toes hurt and they are not there.

I lost my green jump rope last month when they shelled the village where Maman and me were staying. I cried a lot then. Mama said she would buy me a new one when she got some money. We have not had money since last year. Now I can't jump rope anymore unless I get a special prosthesis, Docteur Luka says. He is nice. He spends most of the day with me, and plays with me. I have never seen a big man like him play with a girl. Most big men I see carry guns and try to kill Mama and me. But there are still nice men. Doctors are nice. I want to be a doctor too, so I can fix people who got hurt like me.

Docteur John was nice too. He left a couple of days ago. His French was very bad. I taught him some bad words Mama says little girls like me are not supposed to know. He laughed a lot when Gillian explained him what they meant. He asked me if I wanted anything from America. I asked him for a jump rope and an English book so I can learn some because his French was terrible. He laughed a little, and then patted me on the head. He and Docteur Luka spoke for a long time, I think about my foot.

Now he and Gillian left. It's just Docteur Luka now. He seems sad sometimes. He sits around by himself and smokes. He looks like he wants to cry sometimes when he thinks he is alone, but he never does. He told me one night that he used to have a little girl about my age, and a little boy, but they were gone, he didn't say how. He told me that there was a war like here at the place where he used to live. I don't understand why he came to our war if he was in a war. Our war is really bad and I imagine other wars are also bad too, if they make people like Luka so sad.

The army helicopter came yesterday. They were supposed to take everyone away to Kisangani, but there was not enough room, so Mama and Luka had to stay behind until the next time. I could have gotten on, but I did not want to leave Mama. I was afraid I would never see her again. Mama and Luka wanted me to go, but I refused. Mama cried a lot and said that I was silly, but I was happy that I stayed with her. Luka was also angry at me, but I said that I didn't want to leave him and Mama, and he just looked at me, his eyes really sad, like Mama's, but did not cry.

I wonder what will happen. Maybe the helicopter will come back soon and we can go live in Kinshasa. Papa's cousin lives there, and he would not mind if we came. He is nice. I met him when I was little, when it was Maurice's birthday. I miss Maurice. I don't remember what he looks like anymore, just like Papa. I think he is dead. Mama hasn't told me that but I think that dead boy we saw last winter was him, because Mama told me to run to the tent we lived in and only come back late at night, her face all puffy. Maurice was stolen by the Mai-Mai when we were running away from our town, and I never saw him again.

Luka comes to the place where I am sitting with a bundle of clothes and asks me if I want to go help him wash them. I get really excited and jump up, because I want to run to the stream. But I fall down because I forget that I can't run anymore. I stare at the place where my foot was and tears come to my eyes, because I want it back, I want to paint all ten of my toes with nail polish but I have only five left. Luka helps me to get up and holds me up so I can stand on my healthy leg. I feel ashamed for my tears and wipe at my eyes with my hands. Luka continues to hold me up and kneels, so his face is almost on the level with mine.

We look at each other, and I see that he has tears in his eyes too. Before I realize what I am doing I wipe a tear from his cheek with my hand, and put my arms around his neck and hug him like I used to hug Papa, and maybe like his daughter used to hug him. He hugs me too, and before I let go of him he lifts me up and spins me around in the air. He laughs, and I laugh too, as the sky and the forest become a twirl of colors...

**A/N:** I just wanted to thank all of the reviewers for their great feedback and say that I am unfortunately not able to list my comments to their reviews here because I don't have Internet on my home computer and only have it at the comp lab at the university I am currently studying at, which is usually VERY full. My grandma is also staying with me – and she doesn't like it when I'm on the comp and thinks that I should go to sleep at midnight despite me being twenty… And did I mention my Dad just came to visit? Also, since season ten is starting up soon, I wanted to say that I will not see it until January and thus this fic will become totally AU.

**A/N #2:** For those awaiting the Luka chapter – don't despair, it's halfway done, but it's a bit delayed because I am starting my fall classes in a week, and since I am a college junior who will be taking graduate-level classes, fanfic has to take the second place for a while. For Carbies who don't want Carter and Abby to break up in this fic– tough luck. My fic – my rules. If you want Carby, go read it somewhere else, because I don't write it. Anyways, sorry for the harshness.


	5. Luka: Dreams and Realities

Luka: Dreams and Realities

We humans are inborn assholes – everything that is useful to us we either fuck over or destroy. Congo is no exception to the general rule – it's just like any other country where there is war – civilians die, soldiers die, houses are ruined, lives are destroyed, and money is made by a select few. Not much different from any other "war-torn" country I've been in. "War-torn" is a good descriptive adjective, because war tears a lot apart – lives, families, careers, destinies, anything you can and can't imagine.

Right now, I feel like I am an island in a middle of a stormy ocean, a small, uninhabited island that is about to be swallowed up by that ocean. This feeling is perhaps due to the fact that the Congolese army flew in a helicopter to evacuate several people, but not everyone could fit in, and thus me, Eddah and Chance stayed behind. The area is deserted of people for miles around us, and unless there is shooting, it is unnaturally quiet. I have started to doubt the intent of the army to come back for us, although I have not yet shared this thought with Eddah. I don't want to deprive her of whatever hope she has left, since hope is sometimes all that one has in a situation like this.

Chance has recovered from the amputation well, and there has been no infection on site where we amputated her foot. Chance is a lively little girl, and a quite inquisitive one too. She has decided to become a doctor now and has been practicing on me as her patient, with Eddah sometimes joining us as my fellow patient or nurse. Eddah has decided to mother me and refuses to let me anywhere near the kitchen area. She's a great cook too, since she manages to turn our meager and tasteless rations into something edible. Before the war, she taught French in the small school in her village, but she has been homeless and unemployed for two years now. She has told me about how hard it is for her to wear dirty clothes for weeks, since she enjoys having clean clothes, but she often doesn't even have water to drink, much less to wash clothes in.

While Chance sleeps at night with the sleep of the innocent, Eddah agonizes that she is unable to get Chance things she needs, sometimes things as elementary as clothes. She says she wants her daughter to have a childhood, that she feels guilty that her daughter was injured and that she was unharmed, that she wants to ask someone why her daughter has to suffer so much, but that she cannot find anyone to ask that. She hopes that one day she can buy Chance some of the things that she wants – a new hair band, a little bottle of nail polish like the one Eddah let her use when they still had the house where they lived, a bracelet made of beads. I listen to her and nod, her words speaking to the almost-dead parent in me, remembering small hands tearing apart wrapping paper and the agonizing over meager paychecks, deciding what to cut on so your daughter has what she really wants for her birthday.

Despite my attempt to keep my worries to myself, I think that Eddah knows that the helicopter is probably not coming back. She has been cleaning the already clean clinic all morning, so I decided to give her some room and do the laundry with Chance. Eddah has washed her and Chance's clothes yesterday, so we have gathered all of my clothes that don't have blood on them, and Chance and me have gone down to the nearby stream. My clothes are in definite need of washing, because I was starting to attract flies just by going outside. We don't have enough power to boil a lot of water at the clinic so we will first wash most of the dirt off in the stream and then boil the clothes to kill the bacteria.

I've already washed my underwear (although how some of it got bloodstains on it is beyond me) and the two clean T-shirts that were still some degree of white, as well as a pair of jeans that are almost too small for me. Now I still got to get my cargo pants clean, which is a monumental task. The situation looks somehow perversely idyllic - a warm sunny day, me in my underwear and up to my knees in water washing my clothes while Chance sits on a rock holding on to the sheets so they won't float away. Only Chance has a stump where her foot used to be and we are stranded in the middle of a war zone and I'm in desperate need of a drink and a cigarette. I know I got half a pack stowed away somewhere, and there's a bottle of medical alcohol in the medicine cabinet which I can add water to. Think happy thoughts, Luka, think happy thoughts, a voice in my mind says ironically, before you lose whatever marbles you have left. Great – my mind is talking to me… does this mean I am going crazy?

"Can we sing the song, Luka?" Chance asks, and I blink, realizing that I've been standing and staring at my dirty pants for several minutes.

"Of course, my dear Chance."

Chance has learned " the song" from a tape a couple years ago, but still remembers most of it. She has taught me the lyrics in French, the original being a little hard for me to master. I may be a relative polyglot when compared to the average County doctor, but I am not yet ready to take on more the a couple of words of a language outside the Indo-European language group.

She starts, clapping her hands, moving her upper body, entranced by her own voice. I echo her in my weirdly accented French, squeezing what seems to be the whole stream out of my pants and trying to keep an eye on the soap dish that swims in drunken circles around my legs.

Chance takes over, almost dancing on her rock, her voice strong and clear.I continue, and notice that the soap dish has decided to escape after all. I step toward it, trip over a rock and fall into the water with the pants I just spent ten minutes squeezing that water out of.

"Luka, you are very funny!" she yells and dissolves into a fit of giggles.

I get up, now thoroughly soaked and glare at her. She giggles even louder. I give up on the pants momentarily, wade towards her and lift her off the rock. She squeals and laughs even more, and swears that she won't laugh anymore. I dangle her above the water, which makes her almost burst with laughter, and after a "solemn" promise to not make fun of someone when they fall down into a stream and get drenched, I deposit her back on the rock, only to be teased again. It is great to see Chance laughing. It makes me feel like there is still hope for the world when children laugh, because children are stronger then us, because they have not yet given up on the world.

Finally, I manage to get the cargos to look like they were at least once clean and after I get the laundry into a plastic bucket I help Chance up on the roughly made crutches. To amuse her I try to balance the bucket on my head, which she finds very funny, which leads to yet more giggling. We make our way back to the clinic, where Eddah has re-cleaned everything she could and made food. Chance tells Eddah about our adventures at the stream, I can tell, even though they are speaking in their language. Eddah kisses Chance on the cheek and turns to me. I suddenly feel self-conscious wearing only underwear. She asks me if I want to eat, and I answer in the affirmative. Our dinner consists of tuna conserves, crackers with condensed milk and some kind of pickled fruit – I wasn't able to tell what it was by the taste and I didn't want to ask Eddah. After we eat, Eddah and Chance retreat to the clinic for an afternoon nap and I remain outside, alone with my depressing thoughts.

The air is heavy and smells of smoke, and I shiver despite the heat, feeling something strange and undefined, perhaps fear, perhaps resignation to my fate, whatever it will be. I have no fear of death, haven't been afraid of it for a while, so if the strange foreboding feeling does predict my end, I will let go easily. Perhaps I have wanted to die subconsciously for a while. My life for the last twelve years has not been something I'd wish on my worst enemy. There have been days I wanted something to strike me, to destroy me so I wouldn't feel the indefinable pain in my head, the feeling of uselessness, emptiness and loss that did not go away with a new life and a new job. If it's just my head screwing with me, I still have to deal with my return to Chicago. I'll have a new friend there, a friend I'd never thought I would have, and an old friend in Croatia who would listen to all of my rants and musings if I only gave her a call. But there will be the emptiness again, the emptiness and Abby, reminding me of my dark side, reminding me of my failures and awakening my jealousy. Do I want to go back? I don't know. Do I want my expensive apartment that sometimes feels like a grave, a well-paid job that makes me want to kill myself and a woman who makes me feel like I want to tear my heart out and hand it to her?

After Eddah and Chance wake up, we decide that it's time for a shower, since we don't smell much better then our clothes before they were washed. We leave Chance at the clinic and go down to the river to get some water, which we pour into the canister on top of the makeshift shower which consists of several steel poles and a piece of plastic wrap for privacy. I let Eddah and Chance go first and shave in the meantime because I'm starting to look like a pirate. Then I take a superquick shower which makes me feel much better, and put on my last clean boxers, silently praising my mother for her advice to always pack extra underwear. Our clothes hang on the clothesline and flap slightly in the light breeze, and I think of my grandmother hanging up freshly washed clothes and Janko and me running around among the huge wet sheets, pretending we were in a maze with a dragon who had captured a beautiful princess. We would locate the old washing machine which always was the dragon and "kill" it, and after that, the "princess" would give us – no, not a kiss, but a swat on the rear, because we stuck sticks into the washing machine again, and would curse at us, saying that little boys had the devil in them. We would make cute faces at her, and she would chase us to the kitchen and give us some fresh cherry pie after we promised we would not stick sticks into the washing machine. And the next laundry day, the story repeated itself…

Eddah sits down on the bed next to me. I look at her, trying to guess what she wants to tell me. Eddah has been pretty once, but her face is tired and lined with the worries of the war. I aged ten years in one in 1992, so I can relate to that. I regained some of the years back, but I still have photos of me where I look forty, and where I am only twenty-seven. She opens her mouth, closes it again, fiddles with her crucufix, and finally decides to start speaking.

"Chance told me that your children killed in a war, like here," she says nervously.

I look at her, a bit taken aback by her directness. Not many people have the nerve to talk about my dead family with me, but I guess Eddah is not afraid to talk of such matters. I nod, and look at her, challenging her to continue.

"And your wife?" she asks, her eyes deep and dark and infinitely understanding. What the hell – we are alone here, and it has been twelve years. I should be able to talk about this.

"She died too," I say, wondering why Eddah wants to know, why she asks about something she can guess is painful to me.

"My husband was killed last year and my son this winter. Chance is all that I have left. I- I wanted to thank you for saving her. When you go home, can you thank Docteur Carter?"

"I will," I say, and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it lightly, "but it was your quick thinking and getting Chance here as fast as you could that saved her."

"Luka, you played a role in this too," Eddah says, smiling at me, finally a smile without sadness. "God has put you in the right place so you could save my daughter." She takes the chain holding the little crucifix from her neck and puts it around mine. I try to protest such a generous gift, but she doesn't want to hear it.

"I want you to have it. It was my husband's, and I feel that I need to thank you. That is all I have, and please, don't refuse it." She suddenly turns around and walks away, and I stand there, feeling the cool metal of the small crucifix against my skin. I think of Danijela's crucifix, locked away in a safe in my apartment, awaiting my return, all I have of her except for the memories and several blurred photos.

The night comes soon, making the jungle around us look dark and threatening, and I start getting ready to sleep. Eddah is already asleep, tired from the day's work, and Chance is sitting on her bunk, playing with something. I climb on my bunk and lean back against the pillow. I found the medical alcohol and diluted it until it wouldn't take out my esophagus if I drank it. I take a cautious sip, grimace at the awful taste and take another sip.

"Why do you drink the medication?"

I jump up a little and look up from the glass. Chance is looking at me through the mosquito net, her eyes glistening in the light from my lamp.

"Sometimes…adults do things that are bad for them because those things help them forget bad memories."

Hopefully, she will be satisfied with this explanation. I am not the greatest example of how adults should behave, and to tell the truth, I don't want to shatter the almost spotless image Chance has of Docteur Luka by showing her the real Luka Kovac.

"Are you trying to forget your daughter?"

The glass slips out of my hand and breaks on the floor. Chance might be a little girl, but she is smarter then Dr. Myers and any shrink I ever saw, since she has gotten right to the point. About a year ago, I woke up and I couldn't remember what Jasna's voice sounded like. I was so distraught that day that I could barely work, because I realized that I was slowly forgetting my daughter, one of my own Holy Trinity, and that thought hurt like hell. Perhaps, I've been trying to drown the fragmented happy memories in booze and women, because I was afraid to acknowledge that I could forget them.

"No, Chance. She – she was my life."

"What was her name?"

"Jasna. Her name comes from a beautiful white flower that smells really nice, jasmine -"

She loved the flower she was named after, and when Dina brought her perfume from France that smelled like it she used it up in a month. But this memory is not what makes my heart hurt. I have started to think her as my Jasna, my personal angel, my forever six-year old, and I have rarely thought what she would look like right now. She would be eighteen, her hair maybe long and curly like Danka's, or maybe short and spiky, as young women seem to like these days. She would roll her eyes if I tried to kiss her on the cheek, would say that I was embarrassing her, that my stubble was scratching her. She would- would, it's the word of my life…

"Chance-" But she is gone, probably gone to sleep or to sit on the steps and play with the dolls Eddah has made her from the leftover bandages and some sticks. I debate with myself whether I should go and talk to her, but I feel too tired, too old, too exhausted to face anyone, especially a curious little girl who is not yet restricted by false politeness in the questions that she asks. I still want a drink, but unless I lick the floor where the glass broke, I'm not going to get any alcohol in the unforeseeable future, so sleeping pills it is.

I rummage in my backpack, which contains all the needed ingredients for survival on volunteering missions other then alcohol, take out the yellow see-through plastic vial still almost full with pills, the only thing Myers managed to prescribe me before I escaped from him, take two pills out, and then put the vial back into the pack. I swallow the pills dry, and cough when one of them nearly lodges in my windpipe. After that I secure the mosquito net, turn the lamp off and lie down. The night heat can be felt even through the thin sheets, and I long for Chicago wind or the water of the Adriatic sea, but instead all I get is more heat. After a while, my head begins to feel fuzzy and my eyelids begin to close –

_– but suddenly I feel cold and see myself standing barefoot on a field. It must be a dream, since I am in Africa, after all. The field is familiar somehow, but I can't remember why. I shiver from the cold wind, and see that snow has begun to fall. The snowflakes melt on my skin and run down my body like cold tears, soaking my clothes. I see a light and walk towards it briskly, but it seems to be growing further away. Suddenly a sign with a perversely smiling skull pops out seemingly out of nowhere. I stop in my tracks. I should not move. I do not want to die. _

I see Jasna standing on the other side of the sign, wearing her winter coat, her face white from the cold. She is speaking to me but I cannot hear what she says. She turns around and starts walking across the field, her footsteps disappearing, covered by the falling snow.

"Jasja, don't move! Don't-" I forget about the mine warning and run towards her, but the snow is so thick I can barely see. I stumble, fall down on my knees and see that my hands are resting on a mine, and I know that if I move it will go off. I kneel in the snow, shivering from the cold, and pray to wake up, because I know it's a nightmare, and I want it to end. My hands are numb, and my tears freeze on my cheeks, as I beg God to save Jasna, to get her out of this fucking field, to let me wake up. I lie down in the snow, thinking of when the mine will go off, when I see Jasna's winter boots in front of my eyes. I look up and see her, a tall young woman with spiky hair and a nose piercing. She kneels next to me, kisses me on the cheek and before I can say anything to her, she takes the mine from my hands and disappears. A mortar shell explodes somewhere behind me. I shakily stand up and scream Jasna's name, but she is gone, gone again... I feel like I am drowning in the snow, and I can't feel the ground under my feet -

and then, a mortar shell explodes again, and I realize that this is not a dream anymore.

**A/N** – So, here's the long-awaited Luka chapter. It has taken me longer then I thought it would – first I managed to catch a horrible cold and spent most of that week in a daze, sneezing my brains out. Then I had strange joint paint in my hands that made typing impossible for two weeks. After that, it was vacation time, which passed in a rakija-induced haze (if you go to Croatia you'll find out what rakija is…you will find it out a lot.) Then it was midterms and a new boyfriend. I'm also ER deprived, since I am in Europe, where they're a season behind – and now I'm deprived even of season 9 reruns since my new apartment has no TV. AAAAAAH! Furthermore, I suddenly have tons of work and as I've discovered, graduate level readings in Gender Studies do not a college junior with a lot of free time (or a lot of sanity) make. I swear, next time I see the words "phallic gaze" I'll beat myself to death with my 600-page "Reading Popular Culture" reader… But in good news, I made a presentation on slash fan fiction and some people from my class liked my ER stories. Whee!

**A/N 2** – Ariadne, thanks for your constructive criticism – but I have seen some pretty poor people who knew what nail polish was. We don't really know about Chance's past – she might not always have been a poor refugee. But anyways, thanks for beeing a sharp-eyed reader, the best kind there is.


	6. Susan: Between Friends

Susan: Between Friends

"And up, and down, and work those abs-" Bzt. "-and add curry to -" Bzt. "-your wife has a bleeeeeeeeeeeeping-" Bzt. "-ass, and shake that-" Bzt. "- man accused of-" Rrrring!

Unknown caller, thank you for interrupting my terribly exciting channel surfing. With a final "Bzt" the TV shuts off and I pick up the phone.

"Hello?" I mumble into the receiver, wondering who will be calling me on this boring Wednesday night.

"Susan? It's Carter- John. Do you have some time to talk?" Oh my god, John's back! I've been worried about him ever since he dashed off to Africa, and it's really nice to know he's back and apparently okay.

"Of course! When did you get back, John? Everything okay?" Chuck's cat, Mitzi, whom I am cat sitting, hops on my lap and I produce an "oomph" because Mitzi is not the most slender of cats, to put it mildly. I gently shove her off me onto the couch, but she won't leave me alone, and starts gnawing on the phone cord. I push her off the couch with a more forceful shove, and she retreats to the kitchen after giving me a dirty look.

"Just got in last night. My plane got delayed in Germany."

"Come on over – want me to fix anything to eat?" I go through a mental inventory of what we have in the kitchen and realize I probably shouldn't have offered the food, unless John wants to eat lots and lots of moo-shoo pork with three-day old rice.

"Nope, thanks – I just had some pizza before I called. But thanks for the offer, anyway. See you in an hour."

"See you." I put the phone down and turn the TV back on, this time without sound and watch some weird infomercial with muscly men holding up boxes. I was definitely not expecting John today, so I don't even make an effort to transform into EverydaySusan. John'll get to see the Susan rarely seen by co-workers, the BunnySlippers-HairCurlers-Pajamas-Susan.

I switch the channel again and finally find something to watch – _Walker, Texas Ranger._ I'm a sucker for Chuck Norris – yes, I know he can't act his way out of a paper bag, but I enjoy seeing him kicking asses of bad guys. In the commercial break I dash to the kitchen to make some popcorn, and make it back just as Walker comes on again. I have to make a small interruption when Walker's chasing the bad guys because Mitzi puked up a hairball on the carpet, revenging her exile from the couch, and just when credits start rolling, the doorbell rings. I wisely turn off the TV (don't need John knowing my secret weakness) and almost bounce over to the door. Yep, definitely time to cut down on sugar.

I open the door and take in John's appearance. He looks tanned, much tanned then he usually is. When I met John, he was the whitest white guy in the hospital. He was so cute then, with his dorky hair and a tailored lab coat he had to dry-clean every week because he was a puke magnet. I think he got thrown up by all of our frequent flier drunks that year.

"It's so nice to see you!" I gush, thinking that I must really look silly. "You look great!" He smiles a tired smile and gives me a friendly hug, which I return with more energy than I thought I had. I really have to stop eating so much candy on my days off.

"Well, Susan, are you going to let me in?" John asks with a smile and I realize we're still standing on the threshold and the old biddy next door is giving John's butt an appreciative look through her slightly opened door.

"Forgive me – I think I forgot to turn my brain on today. Come on in." I step back to let him inside and close the door behind him. "Want some tea?"

"Yeah," John replies, following me to the kitchen through the maze of boxes of my childhood stuff Dad has unexpectedly decided to get rid of last month, which make navigating my apartment somewhat dangerous.

"Mint, chamomile, black or cherry?" I should start a tea museum. I swear, I still have some tea from when my cousin Lisa visited me in 1990.

"Black." I put some water to boil and pull out two mugs from the cupboard, putting a cherry teabag in mine. John sits down on one of the kitchen stools, and looks around the kitchen, unusually quiet. I try to think of uplifting conversation topics, but can't come up with anything and decide to chatter on about work.

"We're getting a renovation of the ER - Romano's been on Weaver's ass about the costs all week, so not much has changed in that department. Pratt decided he wants to be at County after all, so he's somehow switched places with Jackson - you know, that guy from Mercy who was supposed to come, but who also reconsidered. There's a rumor that we might get more nurses too. That's all, I think." The kettle whistles and I pour hot water in the mugs before putting it back on the stove and turning the burner off. John takes a sip of his tea and smiles.

"Sorry that I'm so quiet - I think my brain's still on Congo time." He puts his mug down and starts twisting a ring he is wearing around his finger. I decide it's time to zero in on what's bothering him.

"So, what's on your mind?"

"I think I'm breaking up with Abby."

I raise an eyebrow and contemplate the statement. It's somewhat unexpected, since from afar, from my perspective, everything seemed to be going okay. I was there when it started – in fact, I encouraged him. Our little fling was just a little fling – John is a sweet guy, but he's too complicated for me. I'm a simple girl – although I do fit the description of younger John's Blonde Girlfriend, I'm not stupid or angsty enough. John really has shitty luck with women. He needs to get someone with both feet on the ground who'll keep him there too. I am not a very predictable person, if you catch my drift – I can be down to earth one day and getting married in Vegas to a complete stranger the other - I might seem like I'm solid and respectable at times, but there's a little bit of Chloe in me which sometimes makes me do stupid choices. Not that running off to Vegas has been a stupid choice - I met Chuck, after all, but it has not has been the smartest moment of the decade.

"So you think you're breaking up or are you in fact breaking up?"

"I don't know." He looks at his tea, his face tense and tired, and I can feel that he needs to talk about this, make sense of it, and he wants me to ask the questions he doesn't want to ask himself.

"What happened, if I might ask? I'm not trying to be nosy, but I was under impression that everything was going well between you two." They seemed like a perfect couple – they never fought at work, always were all smiles and handholding at the parties, but I guess all that perfection didn't hold them together.

"Well, I almost proposed to her a couple of months ago." He stops, takes a sip of tea and continues to study the pattern of my tablecloth. "I got all geared up, got a ring, took her to a nice restaurant and then I realized I was really not prepared for the commitment, and neither was Abby. After that there was the whole thing with her brother, and then things just seemed to snowball at work, and then Gamma died. You probably heard about the funeral. That didn't make things go any smoother, and then I left for the Congo on a whim. Now I'm back, and Abby has just politely kicked me out of her apartment."

Wow. That's not a very fun homecoming - but John really has done some of this to himself. I wish I'd know what to tell him - but I don't, and I am sorry.

"Well - to tell the truth, I'm not sure what to tell you. I guess it all depends on what you think. Do you think you want to go apologize to Abby? To try to fix whatever has happened?"

"I don't think I want to try and fix it. I don't know what I am supposed to be sorry about right now." I sorta know the feeling - this conversation reminds me of the whole Div situation somehow. Whoa - really don't want to go there. What's been buried should remain all good and dead.

"Well – then all advice I can give to you is to wait and see." I smile and point at myself. "I think I should make it clear that I'm not the best relationship advisor." That draws a smile from him - not a full smile, but a smile that reminds me of the John I used to date and maybe perhaps of the dorky John of olden days.

"Want to tell me about the trip?" I prompt, deciding that it's time to steer the conversation away from Abby.

"I think I need something stiffer then tea to do that," John says, his smile faltering. Uh-oh, bad change of topic, but at least we're not beating a dead horse over who's to blame in the relationship

"Whisky? My mom brought it the last time she visited." John nods and I go to look for the bottle, closing my eyes for a moment to remember Mom, blinking away a tear which finds its way down my cheek. My mom could be a bitch with a capital B, to tell the truth, but boy do I miss her. The Cookie Lewis Memorial Johnny Walker is located and poured into two glasses which join the teacups.

"Congo has definitely been an eye-opener. I'd never seen such hospital conditions and -and there were kids dying that we could save with a ten-dollar vaccine. It made me think things over quite a lot.. but I guess it also made me feel like I could change something in the world. I guess I needed a good kick in the head for a while now. Maybe Luka somehow knew it, and that's maybe why he asked me to come."

"How's Luka?" I don't know him very well, but I worry about him. He seems like someone who needs to find someone to be his friend or he will self-destruct, which he has been excelling at all last year.

John takes a gulp of whisky from the glass and sighs.

"I won't be lying if I tell you I have no idea. I am not sure why he went there. I feel like I got to know him there, yet at the same time I feel like I don't know anything about him." John puts his glass down and twirls his ring again. "You know, Susan – just a couple of months ago, I was ready to propose to Abby, I felt confident in myself and I thought that everything had finally evened out in my life. No stabbing nightmares, no thoughts of taking drugs, nothing – and wham, Gamma died, I found out that I didn't really know Abby or myself well at all, and I realized that I could count my friends on one hand." He pours some more whisky into his glass and almost drinks it all in one gulp. "And then Luka just had togo and show me how insignificant all this early-thirties soul-searching is." He laughs, but it's not a happy laugh, not at all. "The whisky must be going to my head. I think I'll go - I just got a new apartment and I need to go furniture shopping and sulking. Thanks for listening to me whine about my problems..."

"You're welcome, John. Well, whatever you'll decide, my door is always open. If you need a shoulder to cry on, a couch to sleep on, etcetera-"

"- I'll give you a call," John ends the sentence for me and we both smile. "I'll be sure to take advantage of your shoulder if the situation arises. Thanks for listening, Susan - I really mean it."

"You're welcome," I say again, and walk John to the front door. We hug, and after quick and slightly awkward good-byes, John departs to max out his AmEx on furniture, and I return to my perch in front of the TV, back to my existence as a semi-attached single thirty-something doctor who eats too much candy and watches too much TV, complete with a weight- and attitude-challenged cat and Chris Meloni solving another crime just for my enjoyment...

**A/N:** Well, here's my take on Susan. I'm really not sure that I have gotten her in character, so if you feel she's too OOC let me know. Sorry for the huge delay between chapters, but between my course load and my manic depression, my muse temporarily kicked the bucket. Note for Lusans and Carsans – I'm a firm Susan/Chuck shipper. They're just so cute together… The Chuck Norris reference is from the fact that I watched it with my landlady in Dubrovnik who has met Goran in the airport and with whom I agree on Chuck Norris's acting ability yet just as she, love watching him kick bad guy ass...  
**Dedication: **This one goes out to my Susan-loving friends, whose names I really can't remember now… forgive me, dear friends, but my brain's full of strange research material for my B.A. thesis and I am lucky to remember my own name most of the time...


	7. Abby: Strangers

Abby: Strangers_  
_

I haven't spoken to John since I asked him to leave, and despite seeing him at work, I pretend that I don't know him, which is sort of hard, since we have been in a relationship for a year and we are on the same shift. He has been a bit different at work, more reserved, quieter then usual. It's not like I am watching him – but I can't help noticing those little details. I haven't really begun to accept what has happened between us, because I just can't do it right now. I have too many things to deal with other then our relationship. Our relationship, if one can still call it that, does not involve filing scholarship applications in order to achieve it, so it is in the last place right now as far as I am concerned. Last night I went through my usual breakup ritual of watching "Pretty Woman" with a tub of Rocky Road thoroughly salted by tears, so I guess that I am definitely on the way to becoming a single woman again. John did not call me names, but breaking up with him somehow hurt more than Luka's harsh words. With Luka, it was easier. We traded insults, he told me what was on his mind, we parted and at least one of us, me, the person I cared about in our relationship, was fine. With John, I have a feeling I cannot explain, a feeling of betrayal I didn't have with Luka. I am not sure whose betrayal it was, his or mine, but I am not sure I can have a civil conversation with him any time soon, which is not very good, since we need to have it sooner or later, the sooner the better.

With John, I have been much more open in some ways than I have been with Luka, but in some ways, I was even more closed off. I think I shielded him from my family too much, in a way. John has known Maggie and Eric when they were on the best behaviors, of course excepting the time Maggie went and tried to rid the world of herself on the way back from Oklahoma. I might sound harsh when I say this, but ever since I came from school one day in 1983 and had to do CPR on her when she tried to asphyxiate herself with gasoline fumes, I feel that I have earned the right to be harsh about her attempts to die. I suspect that Maggie probably played some role in the failure of that strange almost-proposal that I was treated to by John, and Eric's performance at the funeral definitely was the nail in the coffin of our romance, no disrespect intended to Mrs. Carter. Needless to say, my family intervened in my personal life yet again, with the usual disastrous circumstances. Luka had been cool, polite and mostly collected with my mother during her crazed episodes, or at least it seemed so to me, and after being initially disgusted with his apparent coldness about Oklahoma, I am sharing his viewpoint now. They are adults, and I will not take care of them anymore, however it will hurt me. They betrayed me then, shut me out of their little circle of madness, and I have not completely forgiven them. Unless Maggie shows a sign that she has really changed, I will always feel a little bit indifferent and spiteful when she will be up to her old behaviors, but Eric… Eric I will forgive with time.

I visited him yesterday before my date with Richard Gere and ice cream. He was his usual hyper self, and made my headache even worse. I brought him candy and listened to him rant about sex and meds, bit at my nails until my fingers hurt and then kissed him on the cheek and went home, ready to forget that there ever was a time I thought of being Mrs. Carter. I don't know if men realize that the childish ritual of writing your name with his last name persists even when you are old enough to have kids – we women are all such fucking romantic teenage girls at heart. I still have the little scraps of paper with "Abigail Lockhart" scribbled on them from college – hey, it was better then Abigail Marjorie Wyszenski. The scraps of paper with "Abigail Carter" are going into the box with the many Lockharts, Marzynskys (so glad that one did not work out) and Kovaès, along with lesser names that warranted only one or two signatures. When I will get home, I'll continue last night's pity party by renting all movies with great breakups that will come to mind, inviting Jenny from Accounting over – she just broke up with the hot but dim-witted paramedic from Station 48 - and sobbing my heart out over the beautiful breakups of the beautiful people.

My breakups have always been less then beautiful, but still worthy of a movie, or so I think. When I left Richard I broke most of his plates in spite. It is perhaps for the better that Luka and I were not in his or my apartment for our breakup, because otherwise, plates might have flown. It is strange how you get insight into reasons for your breakups two years later, when you can do absolutely nothing about them but feel contrite for your own contribution to the breakup. This particular breakup has been on my mind lately, and I have been thinking it over in order to avoid thinking of John. The summer of 2001 had been a good one, full of quiet dinners, moonlight walks and everything that made me happy yet in the fall both Luka and I exploded at each other and it was all over. I guess we both just held back too much. It's the problem I have yet to find a solution to. It seemed to me that I was open with John and vice versa, but little did I know, and the same old story repeated itself yet again – we hid too much of our proverbial dirty laundry away and then it all blew up in our faces just when we least expected it. It's the oldest relationship mistake there is, probably, but I keep committing it over and over, just as the men I am with. Maybe I should write a book. Maybe I will finally solve the main problem of modern relationships and I will be rich and famous and happy. Yeah, right.

I have come to a conclusion last night, that did explain something about myself, however unpleasant it might have been. When I was breaking up with Luka, I wanted John, and now, when I am breaking up with John, I want Luka. I am never satisfied with what I have, and I always strive to be with someone else, but then I am confronted with the principle of "you don't know what you've got until you lose it." I always strive for something that I cannot keep. I am not sure what it spells out for the future – being back with John after trying to imagine that the last month never happened or waiting for Luka to come back so I can try to understand what I refused to understand before, or maybe even a completely new man in the "Abby and Significant Other" equation.

I felt much better this morning after having a good cry last night. Crying really works sometimes – the pain that you feel inside pours out of you and makes you tired, puts you to sleep so you can begin to forget the reason for your tears. I took a nice long hot shower, had a long breakfast and even curled my hair a little bit to look prettier. I managed to get my mood up, and was ready to drown myself in work to allow my mind to get off the topic of breakups. Unfortunately, to my chagrin, today's shift seems to be the slowest in recent memory. For some reason, the citizens of Chicago are all healthy, not drunk and the fate apparently is being merciful to them, because all we have in the waiting room are a couple of frequent fliers and a businesswoman who sprained her toe, who has been already given to Pratt. I've done everything I could do, and now I am hiding from Susan, who has been giving me strange looks all shift. John has not returned from his lunch break for the last three hours, so I am a happy camper, at least for now.

"Nurse Abby?" a voice beckons from somewhere above my front seat view of several years worth of City of Chicago phonebooks. I narrow my eyes and prepare to switch into polite bitch mode. Yeah, it's really obvious I'm a fucking nurse. I am wearing nurse scrubs, which are worn by every other nurse in this hospital as well. Is it necessary to emphasize it? I look up with my controlled frown and see Luka's friend from med school – Dr. Horvat, I think. A quick glance at her recalls the details I noted earlier - she is about as tall as I am, but her hair's naturally blonde and curly, and she seems perky, probably trying to balance out my misery. "And she's been a doctor since you were in high school," a pesky little voice in my mind adds.

"Yes?" I ask tersely, daring her to get to the point.

"I just wanted to talk to you before I left - I've got to leave right now or the State Department will make Ante leave, with or without me."

"Ah," I say, still not really sure why she wants to talk to me. After an awkward pause, I remember that I should say something with more then one syllable in order to appear polite.

"How is Ante doing?" I ask, trying to make small talk. I've seen the little boy once or twice when Luka asked me to bring some toys he bought at the gift shop up to his room, and he seemed like a nice little kid.

"He's doing great!" she exclaims happily. "He has been doing much better since the operation, and I am certain that he will be able to lead a normal, healthy life now. It's amazing how surgery can change a life – one of the reasons me and Lu- I became a surgeon. Oh, I almost forgot - when you see Doctor Carter, can you thank him for me? I've been trying to find him now, but I've been told that he's out to lunch-"

I manage to keep an expression that does not scream "breakup in progress" and nod. She obviously doesn't notice my forced smile and continues "- he has been such a Godsend along with Luka. He helped to persuade the State Department to let Ante stay for the period of time I felt was necessary for him to get healthy enough to travel safely, and he helped us with the tickets back. It's good to know there are still good people left."

Right now I don't feel anything but numb anger towards Carter, and even his good deeds in Congo and here are not going to make me feel any different about him, at least for a while. I manage a smile and nod again. Dr. Horvat probably thinks I have laryngitis since I have only gotten one multi-syllable utterance out of myself in the last five minutes. I snap out of my little pity bubble and see her looking at me expectantly. Shit, she must have said something while I spaced out.

"Uh, sorry, I had a little brain freeze here for a moment – what did you say?" I mutter, feeling quite stupid.

"I just asked you if you could give something to Luka – I thought I would leave it in his apartment, but I forgot, and now I don't think I will have time to go back." I see a large envelope in her hand and I notice that she looks both nervous and composed at the same time.

I mull over the proposition. I am not sure if I should – I have not even really been friends with Luka this past year, but still, it could give me an excuse to talk to him when he comes back. I decide on accepting it and nod.

"I'll give it to him when he gets back," I say, thinking about that far-off time, and suddenly realizing I don't know when, or if, Luka is getting back.

"Thank you so much – I brought them with me from Croatia and intended to give them to him but they totally slipped my mind with Ante needing surgery earlier then we thought and with Luka leaving," she says, still holding the envelope and not giving it to me. I can see that she is trying to decide something, and wait, wondering what the mysterious "they" are.

"Do you have a moment for a cup of coffee?" she asks all of a sudden, and I am surprised, because I have no idea what she would want to talk to me about, but I decide to just go with the flow and nod. I look around for someone to tell where I am going in case Weaver needs me urgently (which usually happens when I try to eat lunch), and see Chuny chatting up Jenny's former paramedic.

"Chuny, if Weaver is looking for me, can you tell her I am taking my lunch break?" She answers in the affirmative and continues wooing her new conquest, who looks a bit dazed. I join Dr. Horvat and we walk past the charred remains of Doc Magoo's to a new coffee place I've been to once. It strives to be something akin to a cozy European coffeehouse, and at this time of day is crammed with various students arguing the finer points of caffeine and Wittgenstein. I feel somewhat out of place in my scrubs, but Dr. Horvat does not seem to be intimidated and bravely pushes through the students, quickly finding a table with two chairs in a corner. A young man in a skintight T-shirt and pants that are really too small for him comes up to us and takes our order. I order an ice coffee. She orders strong coffee of the kind that would probably give a caffeine overdose to most Americans, and I am once again reminded of Luka. I have not thought of him lately – in fact, I have been trying to erase him from mind ever since I got together with John. I thought that if I eradicated all traces of past affection, the relationship with John would work. However, when I found out that he was leaving for Congo, he seemed to be the foremost thing on my mind after Eric, above John, and I suddenly realized that I have not erased the memory of him as well as I hoped, and he was still there, still in my heart, the heart that has been getting quite crowded these days. I suddenly knew that I needed to say something to him, but all that I wanted to say to him seemed inadequate, and when he hugged me I just did not want to let go, just wanted to keep on holding on to him, smelling his cologne, maybe twirling a strand of his hair around the tip of my finger, doing something not appropriate for a woman in a long-term relationship with prospects of marriage.

"Abby?" Shoot, I must have spaced out again. Dr. Horvat must think I am falling asleep on her with all of the spacing out I have been doing in front of her today.

"Sorry, Dr. H-"

"No, no, don't be sorry. I am prone to occasional deep thinking myself. And please, call me Gordana." The young man returns with coffee, and we drink our coffee, looking at each other and thinking - me wondering why she wants to talk to me, and she perhaps gathering her thoughts.

"Well, you're probably wondering why I wanted to talk to you," she begins, apparently reading my mind. "Well… to tell you the truth, I was not sure if I wanted to talk to you at first, but I- well, I have ears and eyes, and my guess is that you and Luka were together."

I just sit there, slightly bewildered, staring at my ice coffee as if it will explain to me what is going on. Gordana notices my confusion, and continues.

"I am sorry, I know this is probably none of my business, but sometimes I really cannot stay out of other people's affairs, especially when my friends are concerned. I talked with him, and heard some things around the hospital, and I just wanted to say that – well, I can claim that I know him well, or that at least that I used to know him well. Luka's a great guy, but he can do very stupid things. If he did something stupid that caused you pain, I'm sure he felt very guilty over it afterwards."

I don't know what to say, so I remain silent, sipping the ice coffee through the straw and wincing when my teeth begin to hurt from the cold. What can I say to her? What does she want me to say? What is there to say about that awful night when we called each other names?

"He was- he was so happy," Gordana says suddenly and I look up at her, startled. She is looking down on her hands, pulling on a string sticking out from the seam of her jeans, and I can feel that she is trying to find words for something that can't really be described verbally, something for which you had to have been there. I know how she feels – there have been so many times in my life that I could not express something in words and it just stayed inside and ate away at me.

"He- he never told me much about himself," I suddenly blurt, surprising the hell out of myself. Where did this come from?

She laughs, and her laugh is short and sad, without any joy in it.

"That's Luka. If he doesn't want to tell you something you'd have to either be his mother, his wife or his daughter to get it out of him, and they are all dead."

I cringe slightly when she states it so matter-of-factly, because now I have to think about Luka being someone else, Luka before me, before Chicago, Luka as a son, a husband and a father, three roles that I have never encountered him in, three roles in which he succeeded while I had failed to be a daughter, a wife and a mother. Gordana still seems to be far away, her hand clutching the cup so hard that her knuckles have gone white.

"See, to truly understand him," she continues, "you have to understand that he has not always been so cold. You should have seen his face when he played with Jasna. He was a good father and a good husband – it was his life. He was a happy man. He was going to die together with Danijela at an old age. And then the fucking war came and in one moment everything was gone." The cup begins to shake in her hand and she puts it down because the coffee is spilling out on her hand. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't be talking about this-" she mutters, grabbing a napkin from the table and dabbing it at her eyes.

"Can I see a picture of her?" I say, once again surprising myself. What is it with me today? Who the hell is this woman who actually wants to know about the ghosts in her relationship, who drinks coffee with a stranger instead of making up with her boyfriend? I have no idea, except I feel that this surreal conversation is somehow happening at the right place and the right time, for a reason that I cannot understand but it still needs to happen for both mine and Gordana's sake. Gordana looks up at me, her mascara slightly smudged, and smiles, this time without any sadness.

"Of course." She rummages through her purse and pulls out a photograph out of what seems to be her address book. I take it carefully and look at it, wondering what the stranger who has been my unconscious rival for a year once upon a time, the ghost I accused Luka of being married to, had looked like. The colors are a little bit faded, but the faces are clear, and I know that the woman with curly dark hair who looks a little bit like Carol Hathaway is her, Danijela. She sits in what appears to be a hospital bed, looking young, tired and somehow deeply content, looking at the man sitting in a chair next to the bed who is holding what seems to be a bundle of sheets with a tiny pink face peering out. I look closer at the man, who is (her or mine or no one's?) Luka, twenty years younger, lanky and way too skinny. He is looking at the little face in the sea of white sheets, whom I assume to be his daughter, with an expression that makes something break inside of me, because I remember a positive pregnancy test and a long, drunken night of deciding and undeciding and deciding again, baby names scribbled on the pages of my textbook and crossed out again.

I commit the two faces to memory and hand it back to her, our hands colliding over the table. We both laugh nervously and remember that we have finished drinking our coffee. Gordana digs into her bag and takes out the envelope again.

"Almost forgot, again. Here – I almost forgot to give them to you. I'm lucky that my head is attached to me, I'd forget it otherwise." I accept the thick envelope from her and hold it in my hand, not sure what to say. We smile nervous smiles at each other, and get up from the table, leaving the money for coffee, fighting our way out through the students. Once we are outside, my pager begins to beep, and I don't even bother looking, knowing that it is Kerry attempting to locate me in order to make me alphabetize nurse schedules, or do something equally annoying.

"Good-bye, Dr. H- Gordana," I say, and stand there, not sure what to do now. Gordana looks at me, hesitates, and finally grasps my hand in a firm handshake.

"Bye, Abby." Soon, we have parted and are walking in different directions – she is off to the left, going to Records, probably, and I am walking back to the ER, holding a mysterious envelope in my hand and still feeling like the conversation with Gordana has been a strange hallucination. Just as I turn into the ambulance bay, I come face to face with John, who has apparently found his way back from lunch break, and he looks like he wants to talk…

**A/N:** So, here it is, the long-overdue next chappie of Resurrection. Please forgive the long break – I had writer's block, Arabic language summer school, a family vacation that had not gone smoothly, and a stressful last semester at college. I am not sure if Abby is in character – I have stopped watching ER a while ago, and my Faulknerian approach to writing long fics sometimes makes my brain hurt, because attempting to characterize everyone right when I only know one character well is really hard. Since I am already about to break down with all the angsting I am doing over my thesis, I will not make much improvement to the fic if I mischaracterize someone, so please be forewarned that I will not be ignoring any criticism on purpose – I will try to correct any glaring errors in the future when the thesis from hell is finished.


End file.
